


The Hound

by ShevatheGun



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gift Exchange, M/M, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 01:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15853524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShevatheGun/pseuds/ShevatheGun
Summary: Elim Garak, the spymaster Hand of the King, receives an unwanted gift.Prompt: "garakat of the slave dukat/master garak variety"





	The Hound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CastellanGarak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastellanGarak/gifts).



Garak has never in his life had a dog.

Oh, he had ridden as a boy - that is to say, he’d ridden hounds. (He rides men, nowadays, and prefers it that way.) Tain had owned a whole stable full of them. Hounds, that is (though he owned men, too); big, bald, nasty things who would bite and buck you from their backs so long as they thought they could get away with it. They were like Tain in that way, fickle even if you had their respect, only so tame as you could force them to be.

Like father like son, or so the saying goes.

The Hound comes to him as a gift for a job well done - or, at least, he arrives in the guise of one. Tain throws him at Garak’s feet with a chuckle, chain and all, while they’re ransacking the Kell estate. The North Tower is in flames, and the smell of smoke lingers everywhere.

“Here,” Tain says. “A souvenir - I doubt Kell will be making much use of this anymore.”

Garak doubts as much, too - he doesn’t know many corpses with use for a sex slave. Garak looks the man over slowly, tongue slowly siphoning the smoke from the air. He’s a big, lanky thing - Cardassian by birth, clearly, all arms and legs with tough, wiry spits of muscle and the neck of a young god. Garak considers refusing him outright, but can’t with Tain in the room - then, the slave looks up at him, all ice and grit, and he can’t refuse for a whole new list of reasons.

In the end, he takes him home without voicing a single solitary complaint.

* * *

 

The Hound comes with a back full of whipscars and a long history Garak’s disseminated from his place near the hand of the King, along the walls of any number of courts and in the gardens of distinguished noblewomen. He had a name once - Gul Skrain Dukat of the Second Order, a young upstart with eyes full of fire, a prodigious military darling disgraced in the war with Bajor. Allegedly, he took the fall for Kell and Darhe’el’s combined incompetence at the Battle of Kendra - led a retreat that saved no fewer than six thousand Cardassian souls, and took his subsequent stripping of rank and citizenship with dignity, until they stripped that from him too. Kell was never one for sex slaves; that Dukat graced his bed at all appears to be a side effect of pure malice, rather than lust. 

But aside from his scars, the Hound shows little sign of abuse. Upon his arrival at Garak’s quaint cottage, he looks around, appraising the humble, handhewn architecture, and scoffs.

“And to think,” he says, in a voice so deep it rumbles, “they call you the King’s Gloved Hand. Do you do all your killing for sport, or do you simply bury the bounties in the woods? This place is a  _ hovel. _ ”

Garak squints at him in disbelief. “Perhaps it’s to expected of a man of your intelligence - but how would you suppose I’d go about my work in ostentation?”

“I prefer ostentation,” Dukat says, as though that weren’t perfectly clear.

Garak grabs him by the chin and jerks him around to face him. He conjures a rumble of his own, unsheathing his temper.

“I’m sure it will surprise you to learn that don’t care what you prefer,” he says. “And to the point - I believe, if I’m not mistaken, that it’s ostentation that got you here in the first place.”

He feels Dukat’s jaw tense in his hands, sees his eyes narrow and his thin lips tighten. But, when he opens his mouth, it’s not to argue - but to allow his thick, long tongue to fall from between his lips and twine around Garak’s thumb. Garak jerks away in spite of himself, and the Hound grins, all teeth.

“Teach me a little humility,” he purrs, and Garak is instantly certain that will be impossible.

Though, admittedly, it doesn’t stop him trying.

* * *

 

What’s irritating is that there’s few tasks to apply Dukat to that  _ aren’t _ servicing him. Garak has made a point of cultivating a humble, private lifestyle that he can sustain entirely on his own. The house and the small garden are just enough to keep him busy between assignments - he has enough work for one person, not two, and allowing Dukat too much leash is a surefire way to end up bored to the point of insanity.

But, of course, the alternative is keeping Dukat with him all throughout the day - which is another form of insanity altogether.

The Hound appears to have been an aristocrat in his previous life. He has no particularly applicable skills outside of hunting - he can’t garden, or cook, or sew, ostensibly because he’s had servants to provide for him even as a concubine. Garak is equal parts annoyed and disgusted by this; he cannot imagine the inanity of a life spent crippled by luxury. 

He is, at least, adept at conversation. He’s well-read - something Garak can’t help but appreciate even if his opinions on literature are frightfully reductive - and loquacious, energized by the slightest interest, a trait which Garak might find adorable if he weren’t so damned exhausting.

Still, Dukat has oral skills of every sort, and there are ways to occupy his mouth and the rest of him when Garak tires of searching for more housework. Really, the exoticisms alone are becoming distracting. Garak’s never considered himself abundantly sexual - certainly not to the point of distraction - but there’s something about lounging in his cramped bed with Dukat between his knees that he thinks he could come to enjoy a little  _ too _ much. The Hound wraps his tongue around Garak’s shaft with a hungry sort of noise, a feral little purr, and Garak scoffs and pulls him off by his hair, even though it makes his cock ache and his stomach twitch.

“Humility,” he says with a tut, and promptly comes all over Dukat’s arrogant chin.


End file.
